


Motivational Techniques

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Archery, BDSM, Banter, Established Relationship, Kink, M/M, Sex as Motivational Technique, Teaching, Teasing, Weapons Kink, sub!bruce, top!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: Clint teaches Bruce archery, and ends up fucking him on the range. Bonus: Clint won't fuck Bruce until he hits the target ten times and uses it as incentive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motivational Techniques

“Show me your stance,” Clint said when Bruce arrived at the archery range.

“You’re not even going to say ‘please’?” Bruce said with a smile.

Clint smirked, and leaned forward to kiss him, just a little rough. “Nope. I order, you obey,” he said with a grin.

“I’m beginning to think you had an ulterior motive when you said I should learn how to shoot.”

Clint shrugged. “You want to be able to keep your enemies at a distance without turning. This is how. But yeah, I have some special incentives planned.” He raised an eyebrow, full of threat. “So show me your stance. Now.”

Bruce nodded, suppressing a smile. He moved into position, holding the bow, leaving the arrows in the quiver.

Clint came up behind him, kicked his feet a little wider apart, gripped Bruce’s hips to align them with the line of his body. Bruce’s breath hitched a little, and Clint said, teasing, “Don’t get distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, swallowing.

“Good. So archery is basically a combination of muscle memory and physics. Muscle memory comes from practice, and I figure you’ll handle the physics just fine, you being my perky-assed genius and all.”

“I really wish you would stop calling me your perky-assed genius.”

“No can do. So you need to let your shoulders out a little, like you’re expanding your upper body, but with lots of control. And put some muscle into your draw.” He kept his hand on Bruce’s waist as Bruce pulled his elbow back farther.

“Good,” Clint said, giving Bruce a light pat on the ass. “Now pick up an arrow and line up your eyeline with the target.”

Bruce did, this time drawing the bow slowly, cautiously. He was nervous.

Clint leaned forward, whispered in his ear. “It’s good to be careful with your weapon. But you know I trust your control. With a lot more power than what’s in that bow.”

Bruce’s hands steadied.

“Aim,” Clint said, mouth still close to Bruce’s ear, “Imagine the trajectory. When you got it, let go.”

Bruce inhaled, then let the arrow fly.

It hit just a few inches from the center of the target.

Clint grinned. “I’d say that’s a pretty awesome first shot,” he said, a gentle pat on the side of Bruce’s hip. 

Bruce looked down, nodded and smiled. He wasn’t used to weapons training, but Clint could see that he was trying.

“No breaks, Banner. Try it again. You were off to the right, so this time adjust for that.”

Bruce sighed and lifted the bow again. He shot.

This time, it was even closer.

Clint smiled. “Good. Keep going.” He put his hands on Bruce’s waist and made a small adjustment to his position. 

Bruce tried again.

\--

A half hour later, Bruce had managed to hit the bullseye a couple of times. 

“How about a break?” Bruce asked.

“Seriously?” 

“My arm needs a rest. And I was thinking those weapons caches look pretty… private.”

Clint smiled, let out a little breath. “Okay. But just a break. We’re back on the range after.”

“Sure,” Bruce said, a little cocky, like he figured he was going to tire Clint out enough to get out of the rest of his training.

They left the gear on the range (nobody at SHIELD was self-destructive enough to actually touch Clint’s bow) and headed into a small room full of shelves and boxes. As soon as they closed the door behind them, Clint spun Bruce around and brought him to the floor, controlling his hold so Bruce didn’t hit his knees too hard on the ground. He brought Bruce’s shoulder to the floor then, so Bruce’s ass was raised as Clint pulled Bruce’s pants down.

“Is this the kind of break you had in mind?” Clint said, voice full of false innocence.

“Something like this, yeah,” Bruce said, voice dry with anticipation. Clint could hear his breath quicken; they had been together long enough that Clint knew all the buttons to push.

“You know a side benefit of learning to shoot?” Clint said, smirking. “Strong fingers.”

He wet his fingers with his spit and pressed a finger into Bruce, pushing slowly past the resistance, hten smiling in satisfaction as Bruce’s body tensed.

“I can see that,” Bruce said, trying to keep some semblance of composure.

Clint moved his finger around in a slow circle, stretching Bruce out, until Bruce let out a luscious moan.

Clint pulled his finger out, took out some olive oil (great for keeping wooden practice bows in shape). He spread some oil on his fingers and pressed again at Bruce’s hole.

“Ask me for it,” Clint ordered. 

“Please,” Bruce gasped.

Clint pressed two fingers in, hard, relentless, their slipperiness pushing into Bruce’s body as it clung tightly to him. Bruce was breathing hard. 

Clint pushed in and out then, two strong fingers surrounded by the warmth of Bruce’s body as it loosened up for him, slowly, exquisitely, yielding to the force of his hand. 

He ran the callous on his finger, rough from thousands of shots, atop Bruce’s prostrate, and grinned when he heard Bruce squeal at the sharpness.

He tapped on it, then, teasing, firm pressure just a second at a time, knowing exactly what it would do to Bruce’s body.

He saw Bruce’s hand move to touch himself, and he used his other hand to lay a hard slap on Bruce’s ass cheek.

“You know I didn’t give you permission for that,” Clint said, voice steely.

“Sorry, sir,” Bruce said reluctantly. He did what he knew he was supposed to do then: he put his hands behind his back, crossing them as if he were bound.

“Keep them there,” Clint said, noticing his own breath going a little ragged at the sight of Bruce so gorgeously submissive. 

“Yes, sir.”

Clint went back to fucking Bruce with his fingers, slow movements alternating with fast and hard, smooth passage followed by rough angles, never giving Bruce a chance to anticipate what was coming next.

“What do you want, Bruce?” Clint said finally.

“Please,” Bruce said.

“You want me inside you?”

“Please, Clint,” Bruce said, voice straining, his body moving back to fuck himself against Clint’s fingers.

Clint pulled them out.

“Good. Hit the center of the target ten times, and we’ll do that.”

Bruce’s whole body almost folded up in disappointment.

He was silent for a moment. Then: “I hate you so much.”

Clint smiled. “No, you don’t.” He slapped Bruce on the thigh, then helped him up. “Take a minute to calm down, then back on the range.”

Bruce turned away, leaned his hand on the wall to try and settle himself.

“I want it noted that this is very cruel,” Bruce said finally, as he painfully walked out of the storage unit.

“What can I say? You make it fun to be cruel.”

Bruce groaned and headed back toward the shooting range.

\--

Bruce had managed to hit the bullseye five times when Clint decided his pupil needed more of a challenge.

He stepped up behind Bruce and let his hand wander gently under Bruce’s shirt, the softest touch possible in a long line up his spine.

“What are you doing?” Bruce said. Clint smiled to hear the nervousness in his voice.

“In the field, you’ll have distractions. You need to be able to hit your target even when other things are going on.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bruce sighed.

Clint continued running his fingers along Bruce’s back. “Shoot,” he said.

Bruce sighed and shot. The arrow didn’t even hit the target.

Clint stilled his hand but kept it on Bruce’s back. “Keep trying.”

Bruce grimaced and did as he was told.

\--

An hour later, Bruce was able to hit the target while being caressed, groped, and having his hair pulled by Clint. 

“Just two more,” Clint said.

“Don’t remind me,” Bruce grumbled.

Bruce drew the bow.

Clint stepped up behind him again, and Bruce flinched, wondering what was coming next, but the bow didn’t move position. Clint had to admit, his control over the weapon was pretty admirable. 

Clint leaned in to whisper in Bruce’s ear. “You know what I like best about shooting? All that tension, building and building, and then in one perfect moment, you just let go. All that tension spilling out, releasing. It’s almost like letting yourself completely. Lose. Control.” He could see the goosebumps as his breath tickled the skin on Bruce’s neck, could see the drop of sweat drip down behind his ear.

Bruce let loose and wasn’t even close.

“Well, that’s not going to work,” Clint said, tsking. “What if we need to dirty talk during a battle? Guess you’ll have to keep practicing.”

Bruce frowned. “You’re a horrible person.”

“I know. Good thing you love that about me.”

Bruce took a deep breath and tried again.

\--

“Just one more.”

Bruce frowned, but aimed and shot.

It wasn’t good.

“Keep trying. I’m not even gonna grab your ass or anything,” Clint said.

“Gee, thanks,” Bruce griped.

Bruce shot again. His aim was even worse.

“Again,” Clint said softly.

Bruce’s arrow landed even farther from the mark.

Clint’s mouth curled into a frown. “Your skills are going to hell. One more bullseye to go, and your skills are gone?”

Bruce stood there and crossed his arms. He wasn’t interested in getting into a debate.

Clint had switched the circular bullseye with the kind shaped like a person, as realistic as SHIELD could make. This was what all SHIELD personnel used for practice.

Because he knew that Bruce’s biggest problem in the field would be psychological.

“I just want you to be able to protect yourself,” Clint said quietly.

Bruce sighed and shot another arrow.

Still no good.

Bruce was starting to look annoyed. 

Clint folded his arms. He wasn’t sure about this. But he looked over at Bruce, then went to push the button to bring the bullseye in. He could tell that Bruce was staring at him, wary, but he just waited for the sheet of paper and then pulled out a red marker. He drew a dot on the shoulder, then three concentric circles around it.

“A truly effective wound shot is a lot harder than a kill shot,” Clint said, gesturing at the dot. “Hit someone exactly there, it takes out their ability to use their arm. Kind of important if they’re shooting at the people you care about. Or any people, really. But if you hit an inch away from that exact tendon, they’ll still be able to shoot. It’s a risk, to make a wound shot.”

Bruce nodded. He looked down at the red dot, focusing, but Clint could see the gratitude in his eyes.

Clint sent the bullseye back out. 

Bruce hit it right on the red dot. 

Clint smiled, nodded. “Okay, hotass. Let’s hit the showers. Time for your reward.”

\--

The hot water streamed down on them, surrounding their body with billows of steam. Clint held Bruce’s arms behind him, bending him over, watching the water splash and glisten on the smooth plane of Bruce’s back, watched it drip from the limp, dark strands of Bruce’s hair.

He moved inside of him, slow, deep, watching every move, every quiver or start of Bruce’s body. His free hand reached around to pull on Bruce’s cock, a gentle but firm grip, sliding up and down the shaft. 

“So proud of you, sweetheart,” Clint said as he thrust, plunging as deep as he could.

Bruce moaned, low and needy. 

“You did perfect, Bruce.” Bruce closed his eyes and pushed back harder against Clint.

He knew that Bruce needed this, loved this, the praise, the reassurance; he also knew that this, for some reason, was the only need that Bruce was embarrassed about. Clint kissed his shoulder and released his grip on Bruce’s arm to grip his hip. He wanted to push ahead, faster, frenzied, but he kept pace, long, slow, deep thrusts, the whole time whispering that Bruce was gorgeous, that there was nothing he would ever change about him, that his obedience had made Clint proud. 

Bruce came in Clint’s hand, and the seed washed away in the rush of hot water. Clint held him up and finished soon after, and then they leaned, for a long time, against the shower wall. 

They clung tightly, Bruce’s face buried in Clint’s neck, as Clint’s arms supported them both, breathing each other deeply.

When they had recovered, Clint tilted his head to the side. He whispered, “Wait ‘til you see the next lesson.”


End file.
